Resurrection
by May Seward
Summary: Established 00Q. Three years ago, James Bond "died". Again. Now he's back, but there's the small problem of informing his Quartermaster. OR: Q thinks he's going mad, until it turns out his dead lover is not quite as dead as he'd thought. (Rated T for swearing) UPDATE: A friend suggested I add another part to this, so Part 2: Revival is now up!
1. Resurrection

Resurrection

* * *

The first time James Bond saw his Quartermaster since his assignment was on a rooftop, looking down from above.

After three years spent in such deep cover James Bond had ceased to exist in any MI6 records since he left - and with the death certificate to prove it - the operative had finally returned to London. Three years had never felt that long before, but looking out at the city from his favourite vantage point, 007 couldn't help but feel a little... old. Bond knew he'd changed since he left the city, in ways he would probably never be able to reverse, but London stayed the same. His Quartermaster, on the other hand, was not so immune to change as the immortal city.

Even after three years, Bond recognised the head that walked out of the MI6 building as well as his own. Q's hair was a little longer, he had eschewed his usual jumper for a suit jacket. His usual tie was replaced by a scarf. Bond smiled when he found he recognised it. He watched as Q strode out and down the street. If he hurried, he'd beat the Quartermaster home. But something made him stop. Bond crouched and Q looked up at the roof Bond was currently standing on. The angle was such that Q couldn't see him, but Bond saw Q, and decided he wasn't quite as ready to face the Quartermaster as he thought.

Q looked happy. Or content, at least. Selfishly, Bond wasn't sure whether to be glad or disappointed. It had been three years. Maybe Q had gotten over him?

Within minutes, Bond had descended to ground level and was pushing past the lunch time London rush in an attempt to follow Q. Maybe he could just walk up to Q in the street, avoid a scene.

No, that wouldn't be fair. Best to reunite privately. Safer to explain out of public view, anyway. Still, something in Bond drew him forward, everything in him suddenly screaming, protesting Q's long absence from his life, crying against the physical distance currently between them.

Q had crossed the street by now. Bond couldn't follow without being seen. He stopped at the corner, indecision plaguing him for the first time in too long. The last three years had been full of snap decisions, sleeping with a loaded gun under his pillow without the ridiculously high security of their - Q's - apartment, spending every waking moment looking over his shoulder. Imagining Q's face at night just to coax himself to sleep.

Now, he had time. M had promised that once he returned, if he returned, he'd be retired for good. Maybe get a desk job or training new recruits, but all of that coming after letting Q know he wasn't dead.

Three years of being on the alert taught Bond to be cautious. Already his mind was turning over the reconnaissance options, not truly able to shake the mindset of the mission. Something he had grown to rely on his target for.

A sudden stillness drew Bond out of his calculations. He had been stationary too long. Q had seen him. The Quartermaster's expression was blank with shock or disbelief. There was no love there, no relief, James noted bitterly. None of the contentedness he'd witnessed earlier either. He had two options now, allow the confrontation or regroup.

Q didn't move, but the crowd did, surging after a change in the traffic lights allowed a group of pedestrians to cross.

Bond allowed himself to be swept away by the thronging masses and forced himself not to look back.

* * *

The first time Q saw James after he "died", was on a crowded street corner.

It was lunchtime, and the busy London street was full of people moving to and fro, meeting people, grabbing lunch, except /him/. Q saw him watching from across the street, the only face in a sea of moving faces. He stopped and stared, but the next minute, the crowd surged and James was gone.

Q went home that night and cried for the first time in three years.

The next day, there was a note at his door.

I'm sorry.

It was a hand Q knew well. He held the note clutched in his hand the entire tube ride to work, trying to calm his racing heart.

He spent the day in a daze, head snapping up every time someone walked into the room, every time he heard a man's voice. By midday, he had convinced himself he was going mad.

Perhaps it was time to take a holiday. Somewhere far away. Somewhere warm.

By the journey home, madness had been taken over by anger. Anger at himself, for being so pathetic that he was suddenly seeing his dead lover of all things, three years after he'd gone. Angry at James for being stupid enough to get himself shot again, and not being stubborn enough to stop it from killing him. Angry at James for leaving him alone. Angry at himself for being angry at James.

By the time he reached his flat, he was ready to hit something.

'You should have changed the locks.'

Q's heart stopped. He flicked the lights on with fumbling fingers and there he was, leaning on the kitchen counter like he still lived there.

'Oh, I fucking knew it,' Q choked out and then he was flying. He flung himself at James faster than he'd ever moved, fists clenched and snarling. The blow caught James in the chest, but it barely winded him. 'You bastard!' Q growled, trying to hit him again, but this time his fist was caught in James' outstretched hand.

'Q,' he murmured in that low voice he never used in public, that half whisper that had become so synonymous of James and their time together.

'No,' Q staggered back and furiously blinked back tears. 'No, don't. Leave, James.'

'I'm sorry, Q,' James said. 'I really am.' He took a step forward and Q stepped back again. James reached out a hand. 'Q, please listen to me.'

'Get out!' Q screamed, flinging a hand towards the door. His voice was haggard with suppressed emotion and Q felt a flicker of vindictive pleasure at the pain that crossed James' face.

'Q, I didn't realise-'

'Nope, you don't get to say anything to me. Not now.'

Silence. Under the downlights, Q could see the pain disappear behind the mask he always wore and suddenly he was looking at Commander Bond, the operative 007 and his James was gone.

'Okay,' Bond said and walked towards the door, just brushing past him on his way out.

* * *

The next night, the flat was empty. Q felt it like the emptiness was in his chest. Hollow inside, he checked the answer machine on his way to the kitchen. The act was more of a habit really, the thing came with the landline and he almost never got phone calls except when work needed him to come in to avert some sort of disaster. His single relative, a sweet elderly aunt with Alzheimer's had stopped calling when she had forgotten his name.

It was quite a surprise then, when he saw someone had left a message.

'Q, I realise now that I have no right to expect anything from you after everything but I hope this lets me explain everything without you having to face me again. Just... Allow me this, please? Let me get this out and I'll do whatever you want. I'll leave. I'll stay, if you want me to, but I need to say this.'

Q froze at James's voice. His James, not 007, not the operative who had left his flat last night. It was his James at his most human. Something Q had only just begun to glimpse when James had died.

'First of all, you have to know: It wasn't my choice. When I was injured on my last mission - my last official mission anyway - the wound wasn't as bad as it was recorded. Obviously. The shot didn't kill me, but M needed an operative with my skills to cease to exist so he could put someone in deep cover. It was just another assignment with the added catch of me being officially dead. I never would have agreed if I knew it would go on this long. I can't say exactly where or why, but over the past three years I've been almost everywhere. There were so many times I thought about contacting you, really. For the first year, I had very little contact with anyone at all. I had meetings with M whenever he went on holiday, but that was the extent to my involvement with MI6 and my contact with the outside. There was a time when I couldn't because I was almost made and anything suspicious would have compromised me. After that, I convinced myself it would just hurt you to hear what I was doing and I stopped trying.'

The words sounded like excuses to Q, but it was something. Some explanation that didn't make him feel stupid for believing the lie. One that made at least a semblance of sense. Q sank into an armchair and watched the answer machine as James's voice kept pouring out.

'Last night taught me that I was wrong and for that I am so sorry. I'm sorry for leaving you like this. I'm sorry for allowing you to think I was dead and I'm sorry for what that obviously did to you.'

Dammit, he was not going to shed any more tears over James Bond.

'M promised me that I'm done now. I'm done with field work. I should have retired years ago.'

That shouldn't have made Q feel happy. It shouldn't. Field work had been Bond's life for so long, but James didn't seem sad about it. Just what had happened since he left?

'If you have any questions, you know where to find me.'

Did Q have questions? Yes. Did he want answers?

That was the first question.


	2. Revival

Revival

* * *

 _'_ _If you have any questions, you know where to find me.'_

Two days. It had been two days since Bond had left a message on Q's answering machine. Two days of drinking expensive scotch as he waited for any sort of reply.

He had visited Q's flat that night on his way home from his final ever debrief with M. He hadn't even realised that was where he was going until he'd arrived at Q's door. Of course that was where he'd be going. Q's flat had been his once, before that final mission. This was the moment he had made sure he still had a key for. He was _home_. After years of gunfights, running, hiding, lying to everyone he met and fighting a war with himself on whether or not to ask after those he'd left behind.

 _'_ _What do you think, 007?' M had replied, the one time Bond had asked how Q was coping. 'He's taken a month's bereavement leave. He's on holiday somewhere. Scotland, I think.'_

 _'_ _You think?'_

 _'_ _I know.' M had looked Bond in the eye then and his stare had been icy. 'He will move on, Bond,' he had said. 'Its for the best, you know. For you too. I need your head in the game, here. I can't have you distracted by what might be going on at home, is that clear?'_

And then, he had been ordered out of the flat, and as far as he knew, out of Q's life.

He had a teaching position at MI6's primary training facility that would start in three months. It came with its own flat overlooking the Thames - if he wanted to take it.

He didn't. He loathed the idea, but he couldn't hole himself up in hotels forever, eventually he would have to find somewhere permanent. Where, however, depended on Q.

Two days of room service, a visit from a masseuse and long nights looking out over London through his open windows, despite the October chill, did nothing to stop his restlessness.

Three years of hard-learned habits and light sleeping were very difficult to erase - even with the assistance of his favourite alcoholic beverages. He needed to _do something_ _._

In the end, Bond went for a run.

It was the middle of the night, and the sky was clear for once, so every now and then, Bond could glimpse the stars through the light pollution.

On his travels, he had seen the night sky from almost every angle, in almost every state. Scattered with clouds in Istanbul, glinting off a Middle eastern sandstorm, overlooking an Australian desert, an aurora peeking through the evergreen branches of Siberian tundra, nearly drowned out by the lights of New York.

 _'_ _If you have any questions, you know where to find me.'_

That had been a stupid thing to say. Even if he had waited twenty-four hours for Q to think and calm down, there was no way he was going to be asking any questions. Not of Bond, at any rate. Bond had already resolved not to press, if Q didn't want to see him, then he wouldn't. But running underneath the wintry London sky, Bond cursed the fact he was being goddamned _chivalrous_ for once in his life.

The thought of seeing Q again had gotten him through 3 years of hell. Now he had, and that memory made him wish he was still there.

The image of Q's face when he ordered Bond out of the apartment haunted him all the way back to the hotel.

* * *

 _'_ _James, I don't forgive you. You left me and whether it was your idea or not, you could have said no, but you didn't. I'm sorry, but I can't forgive you for that. Not right now, at least.'_

Q knew his deep breath had been audible, even on the recording.

 _'_ _But the way I acted the other night was... I'm sorry, I could see how much that hurt you and I don't want that. Not even now. I can't forgive you, James, but... I want to see you. I want to ask you all my questions face-to-face. If you are ready to answer, you know where to find me.'_

That had been an idiotic thing to say.

If he had any hope of seeing James again, Q had just blown it. The agent ( _Ex_ -agent, Q reminded himself) would never confront Q after that. No, Q really hadn't forgiven James, but the way he had said it in the message had sounded... Harsh, even to his own ears. His voice had been ragged, probably from the vodka he'd drunk just to pluck up the courage to make the call. Getting the answering machine was, well, it made it easier to say something he may later regret.

Q was mighty tempted to call James back, then and there, and take it all back. _It's not that it wasn't true, but it's not the only truth._

The truth was that Q still loved James.

Another truth was that Q had missed James desperately. He had missed the older man's way of making him feel safe, even when driving far too fast down the motorway in a 3 million dollar prototype Q had modified himself. Even when Q awoke from a nightmare of days before MI6 and nights not-so-alone, kicking and screaming. James would hold him until his breathing calmed and his mind cleared, stroking his back in soft circles. After a week of nights with James, the nightmares would cease altogether.

After James had left, they had come back with a vengeance, but this time, it was new images, and the screams in his head weren't his own. After James left, it was James' blood, James' screams that haunted his nightmares like the ghost he'd thought James was.

Lying in bed the past two nights, when exhaustion had ebbed the anger away until all that was left was the emptiness of the bed beside him, Q felt like maybe he had been given a second chance.

It still took a few shots of vodka for him to make the call, and when he did, it was nearing one in the morning.

And then he'd blown it. James would never speak to him again.

Q finally dozed off on the couch, vodka bottle on the coffee table, and James was only there in his nightmares, screaming and dying all over again.

* * *

A knock on the door is what woke Q. He scrambled upright, heart in his mouth. Fear and anticipation chased their way around his head as he tried to figure out if he had imagined it.

The second knock made up his mind.

He nearly tripped over the coffee table in his haste to get to the front door and wrench it open.

Anybody could have been behind that door, he scolded himself belatedly. He had always been thorough about making sure he knew who he was greeting before he opened the door for anyone, but it was late, and in his state, if it wasn't James, Q didn't care.

It was James.

He was dressed in a simple grey T-shirt and navy sweatpants. He was huffing slightly as if he'd exerted himself. It took quite a lot to get James into that state.

'Did you run here?' Q asked. It wasn't supposed to be the first question that came to mind, but right then, it was the only one that mattered to him.

'I got your message,' Bond said, as if that was the only thing that mattered to _him_.

Q nodded and stepped aside, allowing Bond entrance to the flat that had once been his home. When they were both standing on the same side of the door, Q closed it securely behind him and turned to face James, staring at him from by the sofa.

'James,' Q whispered. 'I-'

James leaped the coffee table and had Q pressed against the door before Q had even registered what was happening.

His lips were warm and tasted like whiskey and salt and home. He wrapped his arms around Q and held him so close neither of them could breathe. He whispered around and against Q's lips over and over again, so quietly it took Q a moment to realise what he was saying. 'I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry.'

And then Q understood. He wasn't the only one who had suffered for the last three years.

The ease with which James had slid on his mask the other night, the brokenness in his voice on the answering machine, the midnight run, they were suddenly like neon signs screaming that James was not okay.

'James...' Q began, but he didn't know what to say.

' _Q_ _,_ ' James replied in that voice he reserved solely for him. The sound was so welcome Q wanted to cry. Instead, his hands found themselves at the hem of James' T-shirt and then underneath to the smooth skin of his back.

Except it wasn't smooth.

Q knew every single mark on James' body. He had memorised them all years ago, and Q had never forgotten the feel of them under his fingers or the whiteness of them in the moonlight when James forgot to close the curtains. He knew them inside out, but he didn't know these.

Before he had even consciously made a decision, Q was pulling on James' shirt, removing it without a second's thought. James let him.

They hadn't thought to turn on the light but Q immediately picked up the differences between the man practically on top of him and the man he remembered.

Sometime in the last minute or two, they had both ended up on their knees. James was bathed in a shaft of light from the street outside, and he _glowed_.

Streetlamp light reflected off skin, moonlight reflected off scars. Q counted five bullet wounds and countless other gashes. James suddenly refused to look at him.

'What happened to you?' Q breathed, wide-eyed in the dark.

James' blue gaze was steady, but it took a long moment for it to finally connect with Q's.

'I died.'


End file.
